


To Heal

by FlamboyantProblematic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, its hopeful at least, kind of, mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlamboyantProblematic/pseuds/FlamboyantProblematic
Summary: He will never be whole again, you would sacrifice pieces of yourself for him in a heartbeat. The Pale within him feeds on his pain, but despite everything, you'll never leave his side. Perhaps then, someday, he will find the strength to heal.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	To Heal

**Author's Note:**

> To heal is to be better than what you once were and so you don't put yourself back together with pieces that were already broken, instead, you become anew.

"Titus, this is the third time this week."

"I know."

"Either control your friend or we're going to have to cut him loose. You know I value all my workers. Mister Hardie, every worker is---"

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

He didn't like being interrupted, But he lets it slide. You've heard these words many times before anyway.

Your boss looks like he sinks further into his chair, but you can't be sure. He presses his fingers together and you really hate the way his fucked up eyes are looking at you. You shift the weight of your body from one leg to another and wish he would just excuse you already.

Thankfully his gaze breaks and instead he becomes focused on some papers on the table. You cross your arms over your chest and lift your head to get a peek at the papers, you can't make up much.

"Violent outbursts, a result of an abusive upbringing. It's terrible, really," You can never tell if he's being genuine or not. "Alcoholic father, neglectful mother, no education, I sympathize."

You didn't feel comfortable hearing this. You know what your best friend went through, you've been friends all your life. Heck, you have a few scars from getting into fights with his old man. You know he's lived a fucked up life. "With all due respect, is this goin' anywhere? 'Cause I gotta get back to work."

He pushes the papers away and looks back at you. "I think it's best to tell you that your friend can't be helped, mister Hardie," he puts his hands up in defense for a moment. "He's got things wrong with him up there," he tapped the side of his head. "I'm afraid he needs more than just a slap on the wrist."

"I know he's crazy, you don't have to tell me." You've watched your friend murder his father. Whatever your bossman claims to know, you already know it and more.

"He's psychologically damaged, traumatized, if you will."

"Again, is this going anywhere?"

"Do you know that your friend is," he waves his hand vaguely. "A queer."

You shrug. "Yeah? What if?"

You do know. You know how much he beats himself up over it too.

You bring your hand up to your head and take off your hat, massaging your forehead with three fingers. You're starting to get a headache from all this shit. "Okay, I get it. He's fucked up and he likes dicks. He gets into fights with a lot of the other workers but he's also a really good worker himself so unless you have some magical solution for his brain, I think we don't gotta push this conversation further." Your patience is wearing thin. You just want to leave.

"Do what you see is best, mister Hardie. Next time I might not be so kind."

You mumble a 'whatever.' Under your breath and take your leave.

The wind outside is a blessing when you feel it across your face, like gentle fingers caressing your jaw. You sigh again before getting back to work.

* * *

"Got you in trouble again, didn't I?" You hear the blonde man say without looking up at you. You sit next to him and hand him a beer bottle, he doesn't think twice before cracking it open. "Shit..." he continues before taking a sip.

You open your own bottle and the two of you sit in silence for a while, watching the ocean as it sways peacefully with land, the invisible hand of the wind plays with long golden locks, but it's not enough to bring peace to the storm.

"I shouldn't have lashed out. I'm---" he pauses. It's hard for him to say. "I'm sorry."

You take a swig of your drink. "Yeah. You shouldn't have. And you're gonna do better next time."

He obediently nods.

You take small sips of your beer, not wanting to finish it too quickly. It's never easy to have these sort of conversations with Glen, not because you can't find the words. You know exactly what you want to say. And you don't look at him as some delicate, fragile thing that's going to break under the weight of your words. He can take it, you know he can.

It's just that...

"It's not like I don't try, you know?"

You agree. "I know."

He looks at his bottle with sad blue eyes, and then tries to suffocate and drown whatever demon that's inside him with more beer.

Seeing him like this hurts more than any knife to the gut or kick to the crotch.

Over the years, you've learned to hear words that never leave his lips but hang in the air around you. He's too proud to admit it, but you remember nights where he was wasted enough to pour his heart out.

His words haunt you.

You can still find their echo.

_'I hate myself'_

_'I think about just fuckin' goin' to sleep and never wakin' up.'_

From the corner of your eyes, you can see the figure of a shadow, looming over your friend. It's bigger than yourself, vicious, the type you can't just raise your fist to and intimidate. You can't fight it on your own.

It growls at you as you reach out and wrap an arm around the blonde to pull him closer. His shoulders tense and his muscles twitch but he quickly relax just a moment later.

The figure watches, its gigantic dark transparent hands closes around Glen's neck with ease. It leans down and whispers something in his ears, and you can faintly see the inside of its mouth, full of sharp small teeth. You can't make up the words, they sound alien to you, regardless, you see Glen react to them by lowering his gaze to the ground, beyond his bottle. He suddenly looks more tired than usual.

You won't let him sink.

"Hey," you say. It gets his attention. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd used to fuck with your old man by moving his shit around while he was hammered? Get him to trip and spend hours lookin' for somethin' he was sure he left some place. Thought we were gettin' back at him for bein' so crappy."

Glen chuckles, it sounds genuine. "He would get pissed as fuck though."

"Beat the shit out of us."

You both rub your skin unconsciously. Spots that were marked by life's cruelty. You feel the scars underneath your clothes.

"First time we had beer. We stole his stack and drank it all."

The two of you couldn't stiffle a laugh.

"We got real fuckin' wasted."

"Worst bitchin' hangover."

"We had practice the next day. We couldn't play for shit."

Those days seemed so far away now. The two of you have hair on your faces now, scars, blood on your hands.

Blood Glen couldn't wash off. It still haunts him. Maybe it always will. Maybe he still hears his father's voice in his head.

You often find yourself wondering, for an ungodly amount of time, what goes on in Glen's head. All this anger and aggression chokes him... what he thinks about when he's sober enough to even use his brain, if the alcohol even helps.

He'll never allow himself to be weak. He would die before he would let anyone see him cry. But you've seen the worst of him, covered in red. Broken and defeated, and yet so violently angry. A fire that can never be put out, it simply consumes.

He's dangerous.

And yet he bows to you, his flames don't touch your skin, and he struggles not to crack under your touch. The mask slips off.

You don't know just how much he needs you, Titus Hardie. You stand between him and complete madness.

You can't fix him. You feel a pain in your chest like no other knowing that. He's lost too many pieces of himself to be whole. You would sacrifice pieces of yourself for him in a heartbeat. This beast that burdens his shoulders, and makes his weight hefty, it leaves no room for hope.

It won't let him go until he fights it.

But as you look at him now, you see how exhausted he is of fighting. All he can do is drink and hope it numbs the weight.

You put your bottle aside and extend a hand, reaching to gently grab his own from in between his fingers. He looks at you and grips it tighter, but as you tug, he lets it go. He doesn't understand why you did that, but he trusts you. He would trust you with his life.

Silently, you pull him into the comfort of your embrace, and feel as all his muscles react. He holds on to you, and for a moment it seemed as though he was going to push you away, but his fingers loosen, and instead he wraps his arms around you to return the hug. You pretend you don't notice how tightly he's clinging on to you, like you're his lifeline, and all that keeps him grounded.

You stay trapped in time for a long while, neither of you saying a word. You're not sure there if there's even anything to say. Instead, you break the stillness by pressing your lips to the side of his head, and you could almost feel the abundance of thoughts cursing his mind, making his head throb. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and digs his nails into your jacket.

The air is dense with thoughts unspoken, and yet the night was peaceful. The wind kept blowing, the ocean kept dancing, the birds fly overhead to return to their nests, and life goes on.

The titan of a figure looks at you in anguish, its large mouth flashing the rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, its large fingers almost retreating from their spot around Glen's neck as it withers in pain. But it kept its grip on the blonde, and you knew it wouldn't let go.

It wouldn't be that easy.  
This wasn't enough.

This moment was simply just that... a moment. Tomorrow Glen would still find it hard to get out of bed, and he would still suffer from the thoughts plaguing his mind. But he would at least have a reason to keep going, to keep fighting even when he is already so exhausted.

These little moments give him relief, and in them he finds the strength to heal, and some peace from his own little Pale that festered within him.

You can't fix him. But you can be there to help him find new pieces to fill in the bits of himself that he's long lost, and cheer him on in his battle to take on the titan of a shadow that breathes this darkness within him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day he will heal and be whole again, and his Pale will be no more than a distant memory.


End file.
